


A tale of an inconvenient visitor

by kumquatix



Category: Star Trek (2009), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Gen, Remix, Remix Duello, original timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-10
Updated: 2010-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-12 14:04:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kumquatix/pseuds/kumquatix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the occasion of his son's first pon farr, a frazzled Sarek is burdened with an unexpected guest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A tale of an inconvenient visitor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zvi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zvi/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Pon Farr Tale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/50326) by [zvi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zvi/pseuds/zvi). 



> A fusion of Star Trek: The Original Series and Star Trek (2009), taking place in the original timeline.

_Alien_ , his senses tell him. _Alien_.

It is difficult to maintain his composure under these circumstances, with her in the room. She stands a polite arm span from him, and regards him intently with her pale blue eyes.

Spock's lover Nyota could be a classical Vulcan beauty, with her brown skin, her arched eyebrows, her elegant and eloquent body language. Nyota arrived with his son and _her_ , already glassy eyed and perspiring, but the jumping pulse in her throat was balanced by her calm formality.

Her poise had been perfect, her quiet reserve dignified and proud, as Sarek and T'Pau exchanged symbolic gifts of non-vengeful parting, as Spock and T'Pring turned their backs on the circle and walked away without looking back, and as she delivered her speech of unrivalry to Stonn. Though the words were the same as had been used by their people for centuries, on Nyota's lips they emerged not as a string of sounds learned by rote, but in meaningful sentences, and Sarek felt the echoes of history in their sharp finality. _Daughter_.

It was true, the line between Human and Vulcan had blurred in his mind decades ago. He had sometimes dreamed in _English_ , the most widely spoken regional language where the Vulcan embassy to Earth lay, before he even met Amanda. Even so, Nyota came across as pleasingly Vulcan in comparison to most Humans.

This alien woman, Gaila, is different.

She had introduced herself as Gaila of Starfleet. Artists and philosophers in Orion books he had read identified themselves by birthplace rather than clan name, but that was far from simple; he had been surprised to learn that the sage Olakpera of Khroq-Koh had never drunk the water of the Klingon homeworld, but still identified the origin of his soul as the site of the mythological battle which so famously inspired Kangwu's examination of the war between honor and loyalty in a man's mind.

He does not know if "of Starfleet" should be interpreted as a political allegiance, as in a clan name, or as a philosophical point of origin, or as "I know your son because I work with him", or if the naming conventions for free Orion women are different than the little he knows about the culture of Orion men. To inquire into an Orion's self-identification is considered an intrusive impudence, so he is left standing in the crossroads.

It would be illogical to ignore the influence of his emotions and instincts on his perception of her. He is accustomed to a thorough dossier on the personal history and the cultural background of the people he has to enter into fraught situations with. He is accustomed to the heart of Vulcan being a place for Vulcans, who are predictable in their deviations from social mores, deliberate rudeness as codified as polite manners to the experienced observer. And with the emanations from the nearby firepit distracting him, he is ill-equipped to deal with the unaccustomed.

She looks upset, aggressive. He has once seen a very pale complexioned man from the deep south emerge from a bath in a hot spring, who had that overheated bright greenness in his face, but his subconscious associates the color more strongly with apoplectic rage, the kind that provokes neighbors to collect money for a scholarship to the T'Karath Sanctuary.

Her facial expressions and body language are exaggerated and wild, like those of a demon in a drama of manners for children; her eyes sweep around the room skittishly, she keeps scenting the air, and adjusting her hair and clothes, and her face rapidly moves through a smile and a frown and a wince when she asks for a glass of water in Starfleet Academy-accented Standard.

He pours a drink for her from the old-fashioned evaporation-cooled ceramic water dispenser. When this house had been decorated in the time of his grandmother, the fashion had been to emulate pre-Surakian life. The walls of the room have an artistic touch of the cave to them, in their rough and sloping shapes.

The familiarity of this place is soothing. With his back to her he is no longer disquieted by the sight of her, but her scent adds to the hectic atmosphere of arousal. Going through his mantra and strengthening his shield has no effect, when the signals of sexual willingness are pheromonal, not empathic.

"I'm sorry, sir," Gaila says as she accepts the glass he hands to her. He had braced himself for a flirtatious grazing of her fingers, but she does not touch him. He thinks for a moment she is commenting on contributing to his agitation, before he realizes she is absurdly sorry for admitting to needing water to slake her thirst.

He would not normally comment on the illogical behavior of a guest, but he is out of center enough to ask "What need is there to apologize for what is necessary?" before he can control the impulse.

Gaila stares bug eyed at him, while she chugs the water, and stands there blinking slowly and sniffing for a while before she answers. She is neither aggressive nor aroused, he realizes, but feeling at high altitude in this to her exotic place.

She answers him slowly: "It's a human custom, to apologize when one inconveniences another, even if one can't help the inconvenience."

He believes she is being sincere. The ground has been furrowed, and now he knows he can ask her questions about herself without causing offense. Gaila has seized on their shared familiarity with Humans as a commonality, and knowing he will be able to draw on that should their communication fail makes his stress levels drop. Her gestures and grimaces quiet as they continue conversing, which also helps.

Her replies to his probing are considered and honest. Of course she is ignorant about the most intimate of Vulcan ways, but he is convinced by her ability to speak a truth simple enough to be understood across the chasm of their mutual alienness: It is appropriate for her to be here.

Sarek rises and fetches the heartsong. It is an heirloom, passed down in his line for 27 generations, the hanger made from utilitarian plastic, scratch-proof and conveying the beauty of shape determined by function, composition determined by economy.

"Before, this would have been metal and stone, from before The Time of Awakening," he jokes, but she is not familiar with Vulcan fads of interior decoration. He would not have sought the relief of humor with anyone who did know – in this way, her strangeness invites intimacy.

One does not talk about the rhythm of the heartsong. He demonstrates how to make the hanging glass circle sing with vibration by swirling the rod around its inside edge, then hands the rod to Gaila. She gracefully picks it from his hand.

When a Vulcan youth is mature enough to be counted among the adults in ceremonies, she or he will intuit the use of the instrument. Gaila makes the song faster than he did, producing a sexual pulsing hum, and the empathic waves from the firepit merge into the music, becoming just another thread in the weave – perceptible, but not overpowering.

She can't feel it; her rhythm is not quite fast enough for the first day of the bloodfever. But she understands.

Amanda did not want to take part in the traditional guarding of the perimeter. He could neither argue with her faultless logical objection of no Vulcan in this day and age entering the reserved area when the signs were posted, nor her emotional argument of no Human mother wanting to feel _that_ through her bond.

Sarek could certainly have taken care of his few practical duties of preparing food and standing by to render first aid alone, but Gaila, his unexpected guest, will be able to assist him. Accepting her help is efficient and logical.

\---

Gaila has an appreciation for irony, and eggs on his observations with engaging laughter. When Spock emerged from the firepit, Sarek was taking a break in the main house with his wife, relaxed in the knowledge of his insightful friend sitting ready.

He is glad to return to wait for his new daughter later in the day, well rested.

**Author's Note:**

> In Zvi's original fic, A Pon Farr Tale, the heartsong being made of plastic and glass had a heartrending and hopeful meaning. My remix completely leaves that out. I hope a planetful of sarcastic, xenophobic Vulcans (it's not that they don't celebrate your diversity, it's just that they're better than you) somewhat makes up for that, even if they're not actually in the fic.


End file.
